


Martin, Please Stop Being Strange In The Archives

by threefuckerstrytowrite



Series: Gays Please Stop Being Useless In The Archives [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: AU-of-an-AU, Angst, Angst With A Bittersweet Ending, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Please Don't Hate Me, Sequel, Side-fic, Spin-Off, Stranger!martin, read Gerry Please Stop first, too sad to put in the crackfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:47:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25987669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threefuckerstrytowrite/pseuds/threefuckerstrytowrite
Summary: Tim: it feels if i let him leave i’ll forget him againTim: and i can’t risk that(A side-fic starting during chapter 20 of Gerry, Please. This doesn't fit with the canon of the fic or canon in general, it is just a fun exploration of how I could create more suffering - Persephone)
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Michael | The Distortion, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Series: Gays Please Stop Being Useless In The Archives [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1886122
Comments: 13
Kudos: 59





	1. And So It Begins

**Author's Note:**

> @TimothyStoker messaged @JonathanSims  
> Tim: marto is coming back to mine so imma leave now too  
> Jon: oh  
> Jon: congratulations?  
> Tim: oh nonono not like that i just  
> Tim: it feels if i let him leave i’ll forget him again  
> Tim: and i can’t risk that  
> Jon: I can understand that  
> Jon: Probably a good idea to give him your spare room anyway, trauma is quite possibly a concern  
> Tim: i don’t acc have a spare room oops  
> Tim: i was just gonna take the couch  
> Jon: Oh, that’s fair  
> Jon: Good luck getting him to agree to that, though  
> Tim: i’m sure itll be fine

**_@JonathanSims_ ** _messaged_ **_@TimothyStoker_**

 **Jon:** Tim 

**Jon:** Fuck, Tim

 **Jon:** Tim what does he look like 

**Jon:** Tim what does Martin look like 

**Jon:** Tim please 

**Jon:** Tim I’m panicking 

**Jon:** Tim I swear - 

**Jon:** Tim I thought you’d stopped leaving your phone on silent

 **Jon:** Tim 

**Jon:** Tim, this is important

 **Jon:** Fuck

 **Jon:** TIM

 **Jon:** Tim what does Martin look like 

**Jon:** Tim please-

 **Tim:** fcuk hi

 **Tim:** sorry i probably should’ve guessed ud panic

 **Tim:** ik i would

 **Tim:** martin is rlly tall

 **Tim:** he’s like 6’2 or something, its rlly fucking hot 

**Tim:** he has curly hair

 **Tim:** dark curly hair

 **Tim:** rlly dark brown eyes

 **Tim:** and tanned skin and freckles 

**Tim:** he kinda radiates ‘soft’ energy but is actually pretty muscular 

**Tim:** and is r e a l l y hot

 **Tim:** tho i might be biased sorry

 **Tim:** does that reassure you? 

**Tim:** bc it’s 3am I’m going back to sleep lmao

 **Tim:** I get that ur worried, I would be too 

**Tim:** but martin’s back and we remember him. everything’s gonna be ok 

**Tim:** sleep well, jon :) goodnite

 **Jon:** Tim

 **Jon:** Tim?

 **Jon:** Tim I don’t remember him 

**Jon:** Tim I don’t fucking remember him

 **Jon:** I woke up and all I could remember was not-Martin 

**Jon:** At least a foot shorter

 **Jon:** all carefully styled hair, not curly 

**Jon:** and twink energy 

**Jon:** Tim?

 **Jon:** fuck 

**FUCK**

**Jon:** Gerry, Michael

 **Jon:** Do you guys remember what Martin looks like?

 **Jon:** Real Martin

 **Jon:** Bc I don’t. Tim summarised but went back to sleep and i just

 **Jon:** fuck

 **M̯͍i̕c̢̪̹͖ḥ̲͎a̡e̤̺̰͔̘̫̲͟l͖̳̗̯̖͈̠:** i dont think i can be much help here

 **M̯͍i̕c̢̪̹͖ḥ̲͎a̡e̤̺̰͔̘̫̲͟l͖̳̗̯̖͈̠:** I see peoples auras and personalities and surface emotions

 **M̯͍i̕c̢̪̹͖ḥ̲͎a̡e̤̺̰͔̘̫̲͟l͖̳̗̯̖͈̠:** i technically can see normally but what i remember is more abstract

 **Gerry:** i can’t brilliantly

 **Gerry:** but kinda can?

 **Gerry:** might be exposure though

 **Gerry:** to mikey or to the stranger i dont know

 **Gerry:** either way he’s kinda foggy round the edges 

**Gerry:** might be that i’m used to it though

 **Jon:**??????


	2. And So It Continues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi apologies for the delay (and the quality) I forgot how prose works - Persephone

Tim woke slowly, clinging to sleep as long as possible, until he was pulled into the world of the waking. He sat up blearily, rubbing sleep from his eyes and resolving to make himself look presentable before heading through because  _ Martin _ was in the other room, having insistently claimed the couch, as Jon had predicted. He brushed his teeth and messed with his hair and debated between a t-shirt and staying shirtless for a good ten minutes before deciding that the latter couldn’t  _ hurt _ , he wasn’t exactly in bad shape, and odds were Martin wouldn’t be paying enough attention to care either way. 

Seeing Martin, already awake and dressed and sitting nervously on his sofa, tea in hand, brought a wave of relief Tim hadn’t expected. He was there, and he was  _ right, _ lavender painted nails fiddling with the frayed sleeves of his jumper, tapping awkwardly at one of Tim’s chipped porcelain meme mugs. He looked up when Tim walked in, blinking clear blue eyes and blushing; red dusting his cheeks, painting the pale skin beneath his freckles like watercolour. Tim watched as he ducked his head, soft curls falling into his face, and wondered how he had ever forgotten this beautiful man. How the world had allowed another to replace him in his memories. 

“Breakfast?” he asked, instead of dwelling on it, voice rough with sleep, and Martin startled, before nodding hastily and getting to his feet. 

“I can make something?” he offered, and he seemed to be avoiding Tim’s gaze, something that bothered him for a long moment, before he remembered the blush and felt the cool air on his bare torso, and felt a brief thrill of euphoria before dismissing the idea that that could be why. Martin was still dealing with whatever had happened to him while he was gone. That couldn’t be easy. 

It was at least twenty minutes later, as they sat down to pancakes and sugar and lemon, that things started to go properly wrong. It would’ve been nice if it had been a slow thing. A gradual descent over a handful of years with plenty of time to fix things, if they even could. Instead, Tim checked his phone for the first time since the night before and was plunged headfirst into a catastrophe. 

Tim had forgotten about the 3am messages. His half-asleep brain had dismissed it as Jon panicking, had neglected to stay awake to double check, hadn’t even thought to look when he awoke. Now, rereading them, in the weak light of morning, he blanched. He didn’t realise he’d dropped his phone until it thudded onto the table, didn’t realise his usual half-smile had dropped until he saw Martin’s, concern painted over his features as the blush had been not half an hour earlier.

“Tim…?”

He handed over his phone wordlessly, worried that if he opened his mouth he’d start to cry. He had been so, so afraid of this, had convinced himself it was delusion, was paranoia, was just his brain refusing to let him be happy, refusing to accept that just this once, things could be okay. 

Unfortunately, it seemed his brain was right. This was why he couldn’t have nice things. 

Across from him, Martin went pale. Painfully so, freckles becoming harsh and dark against his skin.

“She didn’t say this would happen”

There was pain in his voice. Pain, and fear, and Tim wanted to hug him. Wanted to wrap him up in his arms and protect him from the world and never let him go. Never lose sight of his face. Never allow himself to forget this man again. He wanted to gather him up, into his arms and into his memory and into his life until he’d never leave.

“Tim” 

Martin’s voice was broken, cracking on his name. 

“Tim, it didn’t work. Even you-” his voice faltered, and he paused for a moment to breathe. “I thought it’d be enough. I thought at least if I stayed-” 

He held out the phone again, and Tim took it. Reread the messages. His heart dropped like a stone in his chest and he felt for a second like he was falling, crumpling, like the floor was giving out under him, and his legs were giving way, and he was hitting the floor - but no - he was still standing there, frozen in horror. 

He’d forgotten him. One room over, and he’d forgotten him. Forgotten the near-strawberry blonde of his curls, forgotten his clear blue eyes, forgotten his pale skin, so easily touched by the flush of embarrassment. 

He’d remembered more than Jon, but it wasn’t enough. It couldn’t be enough. He refused to accept it as enough. 

Martin still stood there, eyes swimming with unshed tears, and this time Tim didn’t think about it. He crossed the room in two strides and wrapped him in his arms. He was the smaller of the two, but right now it didn’t feel like it. Martin buried his head in his shoulder and crumpled into his arms and all Tim could think was that he needed to protect him. He would fight whoever did this, would fight the whole fucking world if he had to, if it meant Martin wouldn’t have to feel like this again. 

They stood there for what felt like hours and was probably minutes, until Martin mumbled an apology into his shoulder, and stepped back. 

Tim’s face was wet. He hadn’t even realised, too focused on Martin, on rubbing his back and stroking his hair and trying to make him stop crying, every broken sob tearing into Tim’s heart until there was nothing left but shreds of muscle, struggling desperately to keep pumping the blood around his body, to stay alive and bleeding for Martin, so Martin wouldn’t have to be alone. 

Martin stared at him for a long moment, expression imperceptible, then pulled Tim back in for another hug. He was enveloped in it, held in Martin’s warm, protective arms, a large hand rubbing up and down his back, providing firm support and comfort. For a moment, he was confused as to why until he remembered he was crying, and then he couldn't stop, struggling to breathe between the whimpers and sobs that shook his body. 

He should have been the one comforting Martin, his head told him, insistent, nagging at the forefront of his brain. Martin was the one who’s whole world had been changed, who’s sense of self had been shaken. Martin was the one they seemingly couldn’t remember. 

The logical part of Tim’s brain told him that was wrong, that they were comforting each other, and it was that part of his brain that he chose to focus on. He pulled away from the hug with a vague, apologetic murmur, though even he wasn’t sure what he’d said, and picked up his phone once more.

He needed to text Jon. To tell him - tell him they wouldn’t be in, that they needed time, that Martin needed- but no, Jon was struggling, too. Jon had forgotten him, but he didn’t have Martin there to help. He still had no memory of his face, while Tim had Martin right in front of him, could bury his head in his shoulder and breathe in vanilla and tea and warmth. 

He sent the message before he could think better of it, full of typos and misspellings, words as garbled and nonsensical as his thoughts. Jon seemed to understand, though, texting back within moments, and Tim looked up at Martin, eyes still blurry from crying. 

“Jon’s coming over” he got out, and Martin nodded. His face was tracked with tears, blotchy and red, his eyes swollen, and somehow, still, he was the most beautiful thing Tim had ever seen. He didn’t want to think about what he, himself looked like - nobody was attractive when crying, and Tim was no exception to that rule. He scrubbed a hand roughly over his face, stubbornly wiping away the tears even as more trailed down his cheeks. 

“We can deal with this” he promised him. He wasn’t sure that even he believed that. “We will deal with this, Martin. I promise. We can- we can deal with this”

Martin looked at him with enough hope in his eyes to repair Tim’s heart piece by piece and shatter it again, sharp fragments embedding in his chest. 

“We can deal with this, Martin. I promise.”

When Jon arrived, he stood on the threshold of the sitting room staring at Martin for a good five minutes before anyone broke the silence. 

“H-hi, Jon.” Martin’s voice was wobbly, ragged from crying, and Jon let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.

“ _ Martin _ .” 

Jon’s voice was breathy and relieved and so utterly not  _ Jon _ that Tim nearly wondered if it was actually him, until he took a slight stumbling step forwards, and stopped himself with a pained expression that was so very him that Tim nearly laughed. 

Martin held out his arms and that was the only prompting Jon needed, stepping forwards and allowing himself to be wrapped in Martin. The height difference was almost comical if it weren’t for the situation, and the desperation of the hug, Jon clutching around Martin’s waist like he was afraid to let go, face buried in his chest. Tim could relate.

Finally, with a pained noise of regret, Jon extracted himself and stepped back, somehow regaining his composure with far more ease than either Tim or Martin had managed. It would be impressive if it wasn’t so sad. 

Jon looked tired, dark circles under his bleary eyes, normally neat hair pulled into a rushed and messy bun. Tim couldn’t help but wonder if he’d managed to get any sleep, or sat up all night, tired, but awake, forcing himself to try and remember Martin over and over, until he realised it was futile, that he was gone. Perhaps even then - Jon was stubborn, he doubted he’d give up that easily. 

Jon tugged on his jumper awkwardly, and Tim wanted nothing more than to hug him, and as the day was already going pretty shit and he doubted he could screw it up more, he did.

Jon was smaller than him, he’d known that already, but Tim hadn’t realised how thin he was, how much he could feel his bones through his thick jumper. He wanted to feed him, take care of him, make him eat and sleep and smile, and at any other time he might’ve said so, but now was not the moment. He pulled Jon closer for one brief moment, then let him go. 

“We should talk about this.” He announced, and there was no response, but Martin nodded and Jon sighed and he counted that as agreement. 

“We can’t remember you after... i don’t know how long. Which obviously isn’t an ideal solution. Sleeping in the same house helps a bit, but not - not completely” He winced. 

“So we need to find a way around it. Like-like a loophole” 

“There is no loophole” Martin’s voice was pained, and certain, and angry. “I just- I- I think me surviving is as much of a loophole as we’re getting.”

“Martin-” 

“No, Jon! I wasn’t meant to survive; I shouldn't still be here. That's all we’re going to get.” He sighed, and it sounded so sad, so broken, Tim would’ve done anything to make sure he never made that sound again. “Figures though, doesn’t it. I’ve never exactly been particularly memorable, only makes sense something would take it to the next level”

“Martin-” 

“Don’t, Jon! You never paid the slightest bit of attention to me until  _ after _ this not-me showed up. Because of course my replacement was more interesting. What, was he better at follow up? A bit more competent? Did he contribute ‘more than delays’?” There was a bitter twist to Martin’s words and once again Tim’s heart broke for him. 

“Martin” In his own ears his voice sounded wrong, almost pitying, but he couldn’t - he wouldn’t give up, not while Martin was breaking and Jon just stood there, seemingly shellshocked, a stunned look of shock and surprise and regret painted across his sharp features. 

“Not you as well, Tim-”

“Martin” He repeated, voice faltering slightly. “I noticed. I noticed you. I paid attention. I  _ knew  _ the not-you was wrong.” 

Martin didn’t argue with him, but he didn’t look convinced, so Tim continued, voice rough but sure.

“I know you, Martin. I know you smell like vanilla and tea and duck your head when you get embarrassed. I- I know your jumpers are all fraying because you fiddle with the sleeves when you’re anxious. I know you break into half of the houses you visit for followup, and I know you don’t tell Jon that because you don’t believe he’ll be impressed and are convinced he’ll judge you or stop you, and you won’t be able to do your job so well. I know that when you’re nervous you bite your lip when you smile, and you try and seem smaller so you don’t scare people, or take up too much space, as though you could do either without trying to. I know you clam up when we talk about uni, and you hum under your breath when there's a song stuck in your head. I’ve  _ noticed _ this, and so much more, Martin. Because you  _ are _ memorable. To me, anyway.” 

Martin stared at him, and he reached a hand to rub at the back of his neck, strangely embarrassed. And then Martin ducked his head just as he’d described and Tim had to bite back a giddy, near-hysterical laugh that he couldn’t begin to describe the reasons behind. 

“Tim, I-”

“You’ve always been memorable, Martin. Even now - even now there’s something supernatural or - or spooky, or whatever - trying to make us forget you. We won’t. We won’t let it”

Martin seemed to crumble slightly, sitting down heavily on the sofa, but smiled weakly up at him.

“I- Thank you, Tim”

Tim smiled, struggling to formulate a response that wouldn’t expose his ill-advised and frankly ridiculous feelings, but was saved by Jon, who sat down carefully at the opposite end of the couch. 

“If it helps, Martin, I have never found you forgettable. Nor has my opinion of you ever been limited to a few comments made in a moment of annoyance.”

Martin nodded slowly. The two of them sat there, pressed against opposite arms of the sofa, a picture painted in the blues and greys of loneliness, and Tim did all he could, and filled the space between them. 

They sat there for a few long moments, in painful yet companionable silence, until Tim once again took it upon himself to shatter the quiet.

“So. We need to deal with this.” 

“I could go back to the institute? Do some research into… into situations like this?” 

“There won’t be any” Martin’s voice almost sounded empty. Resigned. “I doubt they’ve let anyone survive before. Maybe - maybe we should go and talk to Nikola”

“Nikola?” Jon’s face was blankly curious, but Tim could see fear dancing in his eyes, as though he knew this Nikola - or rather - hoped he didn’t. 

“Tomorrow?” Tim suggested, knowing as he said it that it wouldn’t be soon enough.

“Probably better today.” 

“I - I’m happy to go now? I - I know the way, and I don’t think she’d hurt us?” 

They didn’t leave immediately, instead electing to call Sasha and Gerry to explain the situation, then taking more time than necessary to prepare to go, cleaning up the kitchen and reiterating a plan of action over and over and over. None of them would admit it, but Tim knew they were all putting it off - much as they wanted answers, he could tell that deep down they all knew it’d be nothing good. 

When they eventually left, following Martin through the streets and alleys, attracting less notice than they should, he already knew he’d been right. As they drew closer, Jon’s face got increasingly pale, mouth tight and jaw clenched in something that fell somewhere between anger and fear and regret, and Martin seemed to shrink further and further in on himself at every passer-by whose gaze skipped over him as though there was nobody there.

As they approached the small townhouse, Tim was almost relieved. The sooner this was over, the better. Martin stepped forwards and knocked on the door, hesitantly, haltingly, and seconds later a woman appeared.

Every bone in Tim’s body screamed ‘wrong’. Whoever this woman was, she was not human. Was not natural. Was not right.

“Martin!” she greeted, smiling and sinister. “I’ve been expecting you. Hello, Archivist”

Tim glanced at Jon, curious at the name, and his stomach dropped. Jon’s face was twisted in recognition and betrayal and pain, and he wanted to ask but didn’t have the time, because then she was addressing him. 

“Hello, Timothy Stoker. I remember your brother.” Her voice was soft, and lilting, and cruel, and with a pang that ripped through his entire body, he realised exactly why she felt so wrong, and yet so familiar, when he knew for a fact he’d never seen her face before. 

Tim stood there as everything that had kept him standing, kept him laughing and smiling and jovial crumbled. Disintegrated until there was nothing left of him but rage. Rage, rage, rage and pain. Terrible and all-consuming.

He was dimly aware of lunging forwards, mouth contorted in a snarl, of Martin’s arms catching him, wrapping around him in what was half hug and half restraint. He was dimly aware of struggling against him, of desperately trying to get free, to hurt this woman, this  _ thing.  _ He was dimly aware of the tears streaming down his face, of the fact that the anguished yell he could hear was coming from his own lungs.

He was dimly aware of all of these things, but all he could feel was that same, desperate loathing.

Eventually, Tim broke, his legs giving way, the rage flooding from his body and leaving only pain. Martin caught him, one hand rubbing up and down his back, the other in his hair, soothing and calm, and Tim realised he was sobbing, rough, raw gasps tearing from his throat. The woman was laughing, childlike and innocent and empty, but he lacked the energy to react. 

“What - what did you do to Martin?” he asked instead, his voice hoarse and ragged and taking multiple attempts to get the words out. He could see Jon beside him, staring with open concern, and chose to ignore him.

“I saved him! For you, Archivist!”

Jon let out a sound of rage that was almost animalistic. “You - you lied to me. You lied to me, and then you took him, and you still haven’t properly given him back.”

“I never lied, silly. I told you I was plastic”

The emotions that flashed across Jon’s face were too numerous and too quick to name. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“Why am I like this?” Martin asked, before either of them could speak up again. “What have you done to me? Why can’t they remember me? Why do people - why do they not  _ see _ me”

She laughed brightly. “I haven’t done anything, Silly!”   
  


“Then why-”

“You’re one of us, now! You were taken by Them, they won’t let you go that easily” Her voice was cheerful. Too cheerful.

“Then how do I stop it?” Martin’s voice was desperate. 

“You can’t, silly! You just have to accept it. You’re one of us now!”

Her voice echoed in his mind as they walked, resigned, back to his. As they collapsed onto his sofa, numb and broken. Martin offered them tea. Nobody took it. 

Hours later, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Jon finally moved, standing up in one abrupt, jerky movement. “I’m just going to go. I have- I have some things to think about”

Tim nodded, briefly debating inviting him to stay, but he figured the invitation was implicit anyway. Around half an hour later, he, too, stood, stretching momentarily. 

“I’m just going to - food” He announced, and Martin nodded, so he cooked two portions of pasta and brought them through. He didn’t have the energy to sit at the table so just handed Martin a bowl and collapsed back down beside him. 

They ate in silence.

“Would you mind” Tim started, after he’d cleared away the bowls, at the same time as Martin’s soft 

“If it’s at all possible-?”

“You first” 

“Oh. Um. I was just wondering if- if it’s okay for me to stay again. I don’t- I don’t want to intrude, but I don’t want to be alone”

Tim almost laughed. “Of course, Martin, I-.” He cut himself off.

“What were you going to-”

“Could I maybe sleep in the same room? I don’t want to forget you again. At all. If you take my bed I can take the floor”

“I’m not going to kick you out of your bed, Tim. I’ll take the floor”

Tim sighed. Fuck it, the worst that could happen is Martin could say no. 

“We could share?”

Martin flushed, beetroot, and he was shaking his head and Tim’s heart dropped, but then Martin was speaking. 

“I don’t want to- to put you out or make you uncomfortable or-”

“You wouldn’t be. I’d- I think it’d be somewhat reassuring?” 

Martin opened his mouth, then closed it again, and simply nodded. 

“Okay”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.” Martin was blushing scarlet for reasons Tim couldn’t even begin to guess at, and ducked his head when he saw Tim watching. Embarrassed, then. Tim knew his mannerisms well enough to tell. 

“It’s okay if you snore or anything. I feel we’ve progressed beyond that kinda awkwardness”

Martin’s face went somehow paler. “Oh, I- um, I don’t think I do? I was just meaning - it - it doesn’t matter” 

Tim let it drop, instead standing with a soft, performative ‘oof’, and heading for the bathroom to get changed. 

The rest of the evening was a blur of sleepy conversation, Martin in soft pyjamas and himself in an old, faded t-shirt over his boxers. They climbed carefully into opposite sides of the bed, keeping a careful distance from each other. 

He woke in the middle of the night with Martin curled against his back, one warm arm slung over his shoulder, and felt more comfortable than he ever had before. There was something protective about it, calming, and he just lay there for a moment, breathing in  _ Martin.  _ Jon had messaged him again, panicked and desperate, and it felt only natural to invite him over, to nurge Martin awake, to shift over again so Jon could curl into Martin’s other side. 

Personal space was a concern for another day, one with less fear and hurt and need of comfort. 

It became routine. The days would be spent on research, hunting out answers, figuring things out, before retreating to Tim’s double bed, to curl up together, taking comfort in each others’ warmth and presence. 

He wasn’t sure when they made the shift from platonic. When shifting together in the night became crawling into bed together, hands and legs interlaced. When murmers of goodnight turned to chaste kisses on the forehead, then the cheek, then the lips. When the understanding of the situation changed from temporary, fleeting, to something serious, something maybe, just maybe, they could hope for forever.

There was something beautiful about it, how shy holdings of hands became instinct. How warm, intoxicating kisses shifted from a dizzying rush of surprise and joy to something more familiar, something that felt like home. 

He didn’t want to let Martin out of his sight, didn’t want to risk forgetting him again, even for a night. It probably wasn’t healthy, or sustainable, but it was achievable. So long as Martin stayed there, in his life and in his head, everything would be okay. 

Or at least, it was until it wasn’t. Until Tim woke up one night, the room bathed in moonlight. Until he looked at Martin and saw somebody he didn’t recognise. Some _ thing _ he didn’t recognise. Until he looked at Martin and saw shifting, swirling, inconsistent features. A hundred faces at once. Until he looked at Martin and saw  _ Danny.  _ Everything was okay, everything was natural, until, with a shock that was icy cold, nothing was okay anymore. 

Tim did the only thing he could. Did what he always had. 

He left. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, this is sad, but consider:  
> you look out of your window and see an adult man just fucking screaming, while a like 7 foot tall mannequin in a ringmaster's outfit laughs, and two other men just like stand there.   
> if you are still sad, please consider:  
> good. i don't care :))) go reread gerry please or something


End file.
